


Snake in the Grass

by devovitsuasartes



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Prison, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 06:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovitsuasartes/pseuds/devovitsuasartes
Summary: Mickey's old cartel catches up to him in prison.





	Snake in the Grass

They’d both been inside five weeks when Ian saw it. He was in the lunch line, eyeing up the slimy offerings unenthusiastically, when a guy a couple of places in front of him reached up over the plastic guard to take his tray and the sleeve of his jumpsuit rode up.

Ian was careful not to react to it, not to turn and stare. He tracked the guy out of the corner of his eye and made a note of where he sat down, and then when Ian grabbed his own tray he pretended to scan the cafeteria for somewhere to sit, making a note of the guy’s appearance as he did so.

“We got trouble,” he muttered to Mickey when he sat down, sliding his tray so it bumped up next to Mickey’s.

Mickey didn’t visibly react either, though Ian felt his thigh tense under the table. “What’s up?”

“Guy one row to the left, two tables back. Has the same cartel ink as you.”

Stabbing his fork violently into the questionable lasagne in front of him, Mickey asked, “You sure.”

“Positive.”

“Fuck.”

The cartel was in the process of being dismantled, and word must have spread that it was Mickey who rolled on them. They didn’t operate this far north, so if someone was in there with that ink, it meant that they were there for Mickey.

“What’s he look like?” Mickey asked quietly.

“Mexican, obviously. Bald. No facial hair. Kind of skinny, little taller than you. I can try and point him out but…”

“But then he might figure out we’re onto him.” Mickey shoved a forkful of food in his mouth and began the laborious process of chewing it.

Resisting the urge to glance over his shoulder for another look at the guy, Ian asked, “What’s our play?”

“Our play?” Mickey echoed mockingly, though not unkindly. He dropped a hand down under the table, slid it over Ian’s thigh and rubbed his knee reassuringly. “We kill him before he kills me. Must have been a pain in the ass sending someone all the way up here, getting him into the same joint as me. They won’t do it again, not while they’re falling apart.”

Ian had been afraid of that answer. “If you kill him and they find out, they’ll give you more time. I’m already going to be stuck on the outside without you for a few years. Don’t need to make it any longer.”

“I’m sorry, you got a better plan hiding up your ass that I don’t know about?”

Ian clenched his fists around his cutlery. “Yeah. I’ll kill him. Worst case scenario, they give me more time and we even out.”

Mickey repressed a snort of laughter. “You ever kill anyone Gallagher? It ain’t like shooting at targets in after-school military club. Nah, I’ll take care of it.”

“How the fuck are you going to get close enough to him to kill him? He’s here to kill you, remember? You can’t exactly sneak up on him.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Very reassuring.” He felt a cold prickle on the back of his neck, like he could sense that they were being watched. He reached up to rub the spot, then scratched his fingers through his short bristles of red hair. Mickey had dragged him to the barber during his first week and told the guy to shave his head, wrinkling his nose as the black clumps fell to the floor. When it was done Mickey had laughed and slapped Ian’s bald head.

As the clock crept forward, Ian began to feel antsy, knowing that they would soon have to separate for their own work details. He didn’t like the idea of Mickey being off on his own, without Ian to watch his back - not with this fucking guy around.

Mickey seemed to sense his disquiet. As they filed out of the cafeteria he brushed the backs of his knuckles against Ian’s - a caress that could be mistaken for an accident. Mickey didn’t hide the fact that he was gay, not even in here, but he still kept his displays of affection low-key - out of habit, more than anything.

“I’ll see you later,” he muttered, glancing at Ian before he left, worry furrowing his brow. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he added, as he was leaving.

Ian stayed tense for a while afterwards, but relaxed a little while he was working. He was down in the laundry, and there was something kind of zen about the system of shoving uniforms and sheets and towels into the huge machines, then later taking them out of the driers and folding them briskly. It was nice and warm in the laundry room as well, and the guys Ian worked with were alright.

Meanwhile, Mickey was tarring the roof. Ian thought of him up there, maybe tarring near the edge, with the steep drop just feet away. It would be the perfect opportunity for Mickey to “accidentally” fall. Ian tensed up all over again and rolled his head on his neck, trying to relax.

When he returned from work detail, however, Mickey was just sitting peacefully out in the yard, his skin coated with sweat and grime, and he grinned around his cigarette at Ian when he approached.

“Jesus, at least put your back to a wall or something,” Ian sighed, by way of greeting. “There’s someone trying to kill you, remember?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, leaning into Ian a little as he sat down on the bleachers. “Quit worrying, I got eyes on our guy. Two o’clock.”

Ian settled down and leaned back, his elbows bracing on the bench behind them, and pretended to be casually surveying the yard. Sure enough, there was the cartel guy, doing pull-ups by himself on the outdoor gym.

“You find out his name?” Ian asked.

“Doesn’t matter. They can put it on his fucking gravestone.”

Despite himself, a thrill ran through Ian’s body at the dangerous tone in Mickey’s voice. It was fucked up, but Mickey was fucking sexy when he got like this: all hard edges and no mercy.

Mickey went with him to the pharmacy and hung back while Ian got his meds. The one upside to prison was that there was no way he could go off them. The nurse handed them over in a little paper cup, with another paper cup of water, and watched carefully as Ian swallowed them. Then a guard checked inside his mouth, making him open wide, looking under his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see Mickey watching the whole performance, his expression a little strained.

“How you holding up?” he asked softly as they began heading back to their cell.

“Tired,” Ian admitted. “They’ve got me on the shitty generic stuff in here. Dose is still kind of balancing out.”

“Better than being fucking crazy, right?”

“Not as interesting, though.” Ian bumped Mickey with his shoulder and grinned wryly at him, and after a moment Mickey smirked back.

Ian was so eager to get his hands on Mickey that he didn’t notice it right away when they got back to their cell. He grabbed Mickey’s hips, pushed him to the wall, pressed his body all the way down Mickey’s front and dipped his head down to set his mouth against Mickey’s throat, right where it met his jawline.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathed, barely audible. Then louder, and in a very different tone, “Oh _fuck!_ ”

“Shhh,” Ian laughed, reaching up to gently take Mickey’s throat in his hand. “You can’t be that loud.”

“Look at my fucking bunk, asshole.”

Ian looked over his shoulder and then blanched as he saw it: a brown lump, laying in the center of a red stain on Mickey’s bed. “What the fuck is that?” he wondered, moving away from Mickey.

Mickey approached it cautiously, then swore under his breath and reached out, plucking the thing gingerly from the bed. He held it up by its bald, scaly tail, its head wobbling dangerously, its throat cut so deeply it had practically been decapitated.

“It’s a fucking rat.”

Ian rolled his eyes in disgust. “Wow. Subtle.”

“Yeah, yuck it up, I’ve got to sleep on his shit now.” Mickey gestured angrily towards his stained blanket.

“Sleep on my bunk tonight.”

“Fine. But I’m sleeping next to the wall. I’m not having you roll me out of bed in the night and break my fucking neck.”

Mickey flung the dead rat into the corner and they both got undressed and climbed up onto the top bunk. Mickey seemed to like sleeping pressed up against the wall anyway - he’d always taken that side of the bed when he was living at the Gallagher house. Ian liked having him there, liked being able to smother Mickey with his body, so no one else could get to him.

The lights went out in the cell. A guard walked passed - the 9:30 patrol - and when he was gone Ian straddled Mickey’s shins, pulled him out of his boxers and started to blow him. He wasn’t about to let one stupid dead rat ruin his plans for the evening.

The tension slowly began to leave Mickey’s body as he breathed deep and reached down to cup Ian’s head with one hand, rolling his hips up lazily. Ian took him deeper, Mickey’s pubic hair tickling his nose, Mickey’s thigh warm against his cheek. After a while he shifted, lifting Mickey’s legs over his shoulders, moving his face down and rimming Mickey until he began to chuff out soft, helpless breaths.

Having sex on a bunk bed was at once awkward and weirdly hot. Ian turned Mickey over and he tilted his hips up obligingly, holding them steady as Ian sank down slowly, his knees planted either side of Mickey’s thighs, his left knee threatening to slip off the bed. The position made for a really tight fit, and Mickey was actually biting the pillow, _fuck_ , his face all screwed up and red, just visible in the blueish light filtering in from outside the cell.

Footsteps approached outside and Ian froze, buried deep inside Mickey. He could feel Mickey twitching minutely underneath him, impatient, but Ian waited until the guard was past their cell before moving again - slow pulls backwards, followed by sharp thrusts inwards that punched muffled noises out of Mickey’s mouth. The Vaseline they’d picked up from commissary wasn’t totally ideal for this, but it added just a little extra heat and friction that somehow made it even better. Mickey began shoving his hips back desperately, and Ian had enough presence of mind to work a hand underneath them and catch Mickey’s semen in his hand when it spilled out. They already had one ruined bed; they didn’t need two.

Mickey was still shivering with aftershocks when Ian came inside him, nice and easy, pressing their bodies close, feeling that delicious rush forward. He stayed inside for a while afterwards, stirring his hips a little, enjoying the too-sharp sparks of stimulation. Then he murmured, “Pullin’ out,” just to give Mickey some warning as he slowly drew back. Mickey’s boxers were halfway down his thighs, so Ian tugged them back up, making him decent again. Then they shuffled around a little until Mickey was facing the wall, Ian behind him, sliding their legs together and enjoying the tactile scratch of Mickey’s curls of hair against his own skin, which was still oversensitized.

“It’s worth it, you know?” Mickey said, just as Ian was dozing off.

“Mm?”

“Bein’ back in the joint. It’s worth it.”

“The sex, you mean?”

“Everything.”

 

* * *

 

Ian was pulling his jumpsuit on when he heard Mickey say, “Ah, shit.”

He looked over to find Mickey with his hand shoved deep into his mattress, inside the little cut that he’d made.

“What’s up.”

“Fucking asshole took my shiv when he dropped the rat off. Motherfucker.”

“Told you we should have hidden it in the toilet.”

“This is fucking serious, Ian. What am I supposed to do if that psycho comes after me? Talk him to death?”

“Worse ways to go.”

“Can’t believe I’m going to get shanked with my own fucking shiv, the embarrassment…” Mickey shook his head in disgust.

“You’re not going to get shanked.”

“No, you’re right.” Mickey pointed at the rat, which had kind of deflated overnight, already drying out and starting to decompose. “He’s gonna slit my fucking throat with it. Much better.”

“Just… act normal. Keep your eyes open, but go to work and keep your head down. We’ll figure something out.”

Mickey snorted disbelievingly and stalked out of the cell as the door slid open. Ian watched him go, his heart heavy, but not as heavy as the weight of the shiv in his pocket.

 

* * *

 

Ian wasn’t surprised when the cartel member showed up for laundry duty. He’d seen something like this coming. It was no secret that he and Mickey were together, and the cartels often went after people’s families and loved ones first before killing their real target.

The guy wasn’t being so subtle now. Ian could feel eyes on him as he calmly slung laundry into the machines, added detergent, set them bumping and shaking. There were two other guys on laundry duty - old-timers who had learned to survive by minding their own business. As the clock crept towards lunchtime Ian sidled up between them at the laundry bench, pulled a full pack of cigarettes from the rolled-up sleeve of his jumpsuit, another from his pocket, and slid them either side of him.

“We left for lunch at the same time,” he said quietly. “We walked up together.”

Two wrinkled, hairy-knuckled hands reached out and silently took the packs of cigarettes. Ian sauntered away again without another word.

Not long afterwards, a harsh buzzing noise rang through the air, signalling the start of the break. The two old-timers walked away without a backwards glance, but Ian stayed behind. He sensed rather than felt the presence of the cartel hit man behind him.

“You got a plan?” the man asked, after a moment of silence.

Ian turned around, reaching one hand into his pocket. “Not really,” he admitted, quite honestly.

The man grinned humorlessly. “He really worth it? Milkovich?”

Ian thought of turning around, finding himself staring into Mickey’s smiling face, the face he never thought he’d see again. “Yeah,” he replied, no trace of doubt in his voice. “He’s worth it.”

The cartel member nodded impassively, then flicked his wrist. A knife appeared, seemingly from nowhere - a real knife, not a shiv, with a sharp and gleaming blade.

Suddenly, Ian’s heart started racing. He’d gotten into a lot of shit back home, but he’d never actually been in a knife fight. Honestly, this scared him more than a gun fight. He’d seen knife fights and it was like watching two snakes battle it out: long moments of stillness, of waiting, and then someone suddenly lashing out. A slice across the knuckles, a stab in the gut, the loss of an eye, a red line across the throat: anything could happen.

This guy was wiry, fast, and Ian could see that he was experienced with this kind of a fight. If he tried to play this carefully, he would lose, and Mickey would be next. So Ian did something else.

He fucking _charged_.

It caught the guy off-guard, but Ian still felt a hot slice of pain across the inside of his upper arm. He used brute strength to slam the guy up against one of the machines, then rammed him again with his shoulder, then began trying to drive the blade of the shiv towards the soft meat of his throat.

There was a stretch of time where they didn’t move, really, just stood in a bizarre embrace, eyes wide and muscles trembling. The guy had brought up the hand holding his own knife to ward Ian off, and now the tip was only an inch or two from Ian’s eye, pointing right at him, so close that he couldn’t focus on it without going cross-eyed.

It didn’t happen quickly. It happened slowly: Ian’s strength winning out, the point of the shiv pressing slowly into the cartel hit man’s throat. He watched the man’s face while it happened - the widening, pleading eyes. Ian blanched but didn’t let up, not until the shiv was completely buried. Then he yanked it out sideways, and yelled in disgust and horror as blood sprayed right into his face, into his mouth. The knife suddenly dropped away from his eye and Ian nearly fell over as the cartel member went limp, slumping against the wall, his blood still pulsing from the grotesque tear in his throat.

Ian bent down, his hands on his knees, and focused on not throwing up. The guy was still alive, twitching feebly, but there was no time to watch him die. Ian stripped his bloodied clothes off quickly, grabbed a stray sock and tied it around the bicep to cover the thin, shallow cut there. Then he threw his clothes and the shiv into one of the nearly-full machines, added detergent, and set the thing running.

Ian arrived at the cafeteria when the last few people were filing in, and nodded at Mickey, who was looking pissed off and antsy. HIs face softened in relief when he saw Ian, and the expression chased away the horror in Ian’s chest.

 

* * *

 

They were still on lockdown. It had been two days since the body had been found, and aside from a routine questioning, no one was really paying attention to Ian. The old-timers had kept their unspoken promise, and the killing would almost certainly be put down to a gang rivalry.

Ian was lying on Mickey’s bunk, his arms folded behind his head, looking up at nothing in particular. He could feel Mickey’s eyes on him. When Mickey had heard about the killing, his head had snapped up in shock and he’d stared at Ian, who had met his gaze just briefly, to confirm. It felt like Mickey had been staring at him ever since.

“You alright?” Mickey asked, out of the blue, still sounding a little shaken. Ian turned his head to look at him, and Mickey tapped his head. “You know, up here?”

Ian sat up on the bunk, looked Mickey dead in the eye, and nodded. “I’m not manic,” he said. “I’m not depressed. I think what I did was pretty fucking rational, given the circumstances.”

“But you…” Mickey stopped, shook his head. “You lost my fucking shiv,” he finished, his tone softening a little.

Ian smiled. “I’ll get you another one.”

Mickey joined him on the bunk, then, and Ian let him climb over so that he was pressed against the wall. Ian snaked a hand down and took hold of Mickey’s wrist, very gently, and they stayed there like that until the lights went out.

 


End file.
